


Tell John

by ViolaWay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Letters, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaWay/pseuds/ViolaWay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds a diary, but it's almost empty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell John

To his credit, John tries very hard not to look. Because Sherlock will just  _know,_ as soon as he does. Oh, and his morals. He still has those. But he’s making Sherlock’s bed because the lazy bugger doesn’t think that it’s necessary (“it just  _is!_ ” was John’s genius argument) and he sees it. Poking out from under the mattress, just tempting him, with a shiny red cover and battered corners with the cardboard showing through. It’s a diary, or a journal, or something, John just  _knows._ It’s private, and it’ll be wrong if he looks, but it’s just  _there._ Taunting him. 

He decides to look, eventually, because what’s the harm? Sherlock doesn’t have feelings. Or not ones that he expresses, anyhow.

The first page:

  1.      Tell John. 



Well, he had to be so bloody cryptic, John thinks. It’s all very Sherlock.  _Tell me what?_ he whines mentally, eyes scanning the page. The rest is empty. Probably invisible ink or something, John doesn’t doubt.

The second page. 

  1.      Tell Mycroft.



Well, this is getting frustrating. Tell. Mycroft. What? Sherlock is doing this on purpose. Obviously. 

The third page.

  1.      Tell Lestrade.



Oh, my God. John is about to throw the book at the wall. He doesn’t, of course. He flips through the remaining pages, feeling only disappointment when he scans their contents.

  1.      Tell Molly.
  2.      Tell Irene. (Fucking  _Irene,_ John thinks savagely.)
  3.      Tell Anderson. (Well, this is just getting weird.)
  4.      Tell Donovan.
  5.      Tell Mummy.
  6.      Tell Mrs. Hudson.
  7.   Tell Daddy. 



The last page reads: ‘Things I’ll never do.’ The curiosity and hopelessness that John feels in response to that is overpowering. He can’t wheedle the details out of Sherlock, because it’s Sherlock. So he puts the diary back into its place, and he leaves the room.

***

Pain. It’s all he’s capable of feeling, though it’s been a year. He still blinks and sees the image of Sherlock’s broken body, smashed like a ragdoll against the pavement. 

He lets himself go into Sherlock’s room for the first time since the detective’s death. John is imagining things, he knows, but he thinks he can still smell Sherlock’s unmistakable scent lingering in the room. 

He peels back the sheets; he curls up in the dark blue covers (changed by John the night before…well). That’s when he feels it: something hard, pointed, sticking into his back. His tears are already flowing, but he sniffs and sits up again, pulling back the sheets and seeing it again: his last hope. 

“Sherlock,” John whispers, and he clutches the diary to his chest, wondering if there will be more secrets now than when he last looked. 

It’s still just as empty. 

But this time, John refuses to give up. A tiny memory, fading around the edges, of returning to the flat one day to smell burning ink. He hadn’t so much as chastised Sherlock for it, but now it feels so significant, too important, to have just let go like that.

Ink. 

It’s the only lead he has, but he takes it. If there’s any chance at all, he’ll take it.

***

It takes a year. A year of asking Molly and Mycroft to no avail, a year of asking Lestrade to despairing sighs, and a year of wondering if he’ll ever be able to find the perfect light to shine, to reveal Sherlock’s beautiful, staccato handwriting once more. He wants words, and he wants an explanation. He wants the death to hurt less. He wants to loss to be less haunting. 

Scientists are at a loss. As far as they can understand, there has been more writing on the page. But it’s gone, vanished without a trace. John insists that there’s a particular concentration or brightness of UV light that they have to shine, and the esteemed professors and intellectuals insist that this isn’t possible. 

Sherlock’s really outdone himself this time.

John’s playing around with a flickering little UV light when it happens. Holding the diary in his lap, shining the light in vain, because the light’s still on, even though the sun is setting outside. Just pressing, on and off, on and off. It’s running out of battery, the light is barely there, dim and unreliable. John supposes he has about ten minutes before the battery gives out.

Then, power cut. It’s not like John even really cares, any more. The darkness is nice, like a blanket. 

He looks down. 

It’s like the world is starting up again, and ending, all at once. It’s like all he’ll never want is contained within a few messy paragraphs, and so he reads. God, does he read.

***

  1. Tell John. 



_I’d like to tell John I love him, before I go. Selfish, isn’t it, because I’ll end up hurting him anyway. How long will I be gone before I come back? Will he want me back? I’m lying to him, after all. I know what my fate is, of course I do. Why else would I…? No, not to dwell on that. John has already seen this book, I’m sure of it (or Moriarty, but I don’t think so. I analysed the fingerprints). Every entry but his own was filled in with the utmost caution, because there’s no telling whether he’ll figure it out on his own. I never give him enough credit for his intelligence. I should tell him. Another thing._

_I’d like to tell him that it’s not real, that a magician’s greatest trick is making himself disappear. But the danger… I can’t think about it without physically wincing. Is this what I have become? Sentimental, all too vulnerable. In love with the man I am going to hurt._

_I think that maybe I am trying to tell him, with all this. Hidden, but not hidden enough. Not for John: resourceful, brilliant, all those words he told me I was, when he couldn’t see his own perfection. Blind. He’s blind, and one day I hope to tell him that, but not today. Never today, always tomorrow. I think he will find this, eventually. Will he discover these secrets? Do I care, either way?_

_Tell John he’s the best thing I’ve ever known._

The light flickers and goes out when John tries to flip the page. He lets out a moan of frustration, tears soaking through the paper and hands clenching into fists.

“That bastard. That beautiful, idiotic  _bastard_.”

He thinks that maybe he imagined it—it’s gone, now certainly, those perfect, fantastic words fading into mere paper, the heading still carefully inked at the top of the page.

Tell John.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is oopshidaisy, so come talk to me <3


End file.
